“And since 9/11, we’ve arrested or detained about sixty Israelis under the Patriot Act, or for immigration violations. Some of them failed polygraph questions when asked about alleged surveillance activities against and in the United States.”
“Mossad?”
“Maybe, Mr. President,” Evans replied.
The president had spent the last half-minute shaking his head. When Evans finished, the room fell silent. Finally, Taylor spoke.
“As I said, Henry, it’s the way things are. Just the best of friends spying on each other.”
“So what do we do?” the new president asked.
“We quietly negotiate a way out of this so that neither you nor Blanca are harmed,” Evans volunteered. “Maybe it’s a cover story. Maybe we explain how we’ve been testing each other’s security against possible terrorist infiltration. The girl comes out as a hero.”
The president still wasn’t onboard.
“We develop a plausible legend,” Evans added. “And we leave it at that. It goes away.”
Billy Gilmore disagreed. “This isn’t going to go away. She’s becoming the new Vince Foster: a lightning rod for anti-administration hate.”
The president had a pained look on his face. “She seemed so good. So nice.”
At first, no one offered a rebuttal, but Taylor shot Evans a look. It was time.
Morgan Taylor casually worked his way to the center of the room, a place where he was extremely comfortable. The very act drew everyone’s attention.
“We don’t know she wasn’t,” Morgan Taylor said, hardly above a whisper.
“What?” Lamden asked.
“We don’t know she wasn’t loyal,” he said, clarifying the point. “You all know Scott Roarke?” The comment was really intended for Billy Gilmore, who had only a cursory understanding of what the man did. “He believes the woman was intentionally killed.” The proposition had the effect of sucking all the air out of the room. The president’s men gasped audibly.
“Why? For what goddamned reason?” Gilmore asked.
“To discredit the president. To discredit us. Maybe even America.”
Evans piped up. “And Israel?”
“Perhaps Israel, too,” the vice president added.
“I don’t follow,” Gilmore said.
“She had to be killed in order for the story to break and for everything else to unravel.” Taylor explained his logic and concluded that Evans needed to have a no-bullshit conversation with the Mossad chief. “Jack, you have to hit this straight on.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, as if he was still addressing Taylor as the president. Lamden caught the tone.
“Tell them that if they had nothing to do with her death, they still better take heed. As Mr. Roarke reminded me, we have enemies with unfinished business. Israel may be the ultimate target.”
Jacob Schecter expected the call. In fact, he was surprised it hadn’t come sooner.
His aide, Ira Wurlin, listened on a separate headphone. He correctly concluded that Evans would not be alone, either.
“Hello, my friend.” They had only met once, briefly, unofficially and secretly in the Netherlands. Schecter had not yet assumed control of Mossad. But even so, it had not been a pleasant meeting, and they were not friends.
“Hello Jacob,” Evans said. “You must know why I am calling?”
“Yes, I do. The investigation of the Meyerson woman.”
“Well, thank you for sparing me your legendary wile.”
“We are both busy men, Jack.”
“That we are, Jacob. Then to the point: What can you tell me about her?”
“Only what I read in your newspapers.”
“As you said, Jacob, we’re both busy men. So cut the bullshit.”
They were on a secure, scrambled line, but Schecter never liked discussing such business over the phone.
“I would prefer that this conversation continue in person.”
It was a punt. Evans and Schecter wouldn’t meet. Since becoming head of Mossad, Schecter hardly ever stepped out of his headquarters, let alone traveled. It would be far too dangerous.
“What do you propose?”
“Twenty-four hours. Italy.” He knew the principal locations around the world where the Mossad could surreptitiously guarantee the safety of a meeting. “Positano.”
“Not possible,” was Evan’s reply. “Far too quick.”
“Now it’s your turn to cut the bullshit, Jack. Your planes fly as quickly as ours. Twenty-four hours is ample. Even generous.”
“The Sabbath, Jacob.” Evans reminded Schecter that they were coming up on Saturday, the Jewish day of prayer.
“We’ll all have more to pray for after our men talk.”
“Twenty-four hours it is,” Evans conceded.
“Send someone we will know,” the Mossad chief continued without any pretense of fellowship. “If it’s an unfamiliar face, there will be no meeting.”
“Your people will recognize my man.”
“And you?”
“The same.”
“So our people will meet and clear this matter up.”
“We will discuss what we can discuss. I will notify you as to the exact time and place in two hours. You have my word that we will work together to make it a safe meeting.”
“And productive,” Evans sharply stated.
“It is in our best interest, as you will soon see.”
“Yes, it is.”
Next, Jacob Schecter adroitly sent a shot across the bow. “And it is in your best interest to find out who leaked this story. There will be further embarrassment until you are able to do so.” Evans let out a breath. “We are working on that.”
“Good. We shall make this the basis for renewed dialogue.”
“I look forward to that, Jacob. But first things first.”
Chapter 22
Aleksandr Dubroff was becoming more proficient. One website would lead him to another. Now he was onto what the Americans called blogs. He discovered a number of them dedicated to Soviet spies. Somehow, more information was showing up about him.
Unspeakable acts? I was loyal to the Party. I was doing my job.
But now he wondered what it all meant. The Soviet Union was gone. The government that had deceived its people for seventy years was relegated to history books…and the Internet. He had served a financially and morally bankrupt government…a government that had murdered its own citizens on a scale that rivaled Adolf Hitler. And Dubroff had been part of it.
For most of his life he felt it was an important part. Yet now, with only mushrooms and computer extracts to measure his remaining time, and his beloved Mishka becoming a distant memory, Dubroff questioned the value of his life.
Dubroff remembered how Mishka would comfort him. She would place his head on her lap, rub his forehead, and stroke his hair when he came home, pained by the work he could never explain. “You are upset, my love. Ask them to transfer you,” she urged him. Finally, he followed her advice. He requested a job in administration. The KGB complied and for sixteen years, from the mid-1960s until the late ‘70s, Aleksandr Dubroff taught at the agency’s spy school. Within five years he was named supervisor of a special curriculum, one that gained prominence in the twilight years of the Soviet Union.
Aleksandr Dubroff was the Chief Intelligence Officer of The Andropov Institute’s Red Banner Curriculum, the man who oversaw the secret Soviet cities known as Zakrytye administrativno-territori-al’nye obrazovaniia.